at the point in my practice
where i can still picture the ribbon
shooting out of my heart center
journeying between my legs
and into the street.
Maybe it wraps around the guy
that I wave to every morning
(from across the street
because he took the liberty of touching my hand one day)
I smile, he wishes me well,
The ribbon affords distance.
A friend says: ribbon cutting ritual
so I sit on my bed
thinking of the moments I had with flower
-from first eyes to their apartment door I left through-
and pouring them all heaving and screaming and laughing
into the ribbon
a wave crashing
before I cut the ribbon.
Now as two.
That breath I took in after
I will never forget,
and the burn that followed
more like rain on a window
peaceful and watched from a place of consciousness
observed for their shape, movement, and also beauty
I feel the distance between myself and flower getting stronger
and the ribbon reaching further
and I imagine myself at the end of a cliff
my heart center, de-center,
love for flower is unconditional,
perennial beauty and charm.
There is pain, never anger.
But I still must turn
and leap off
into a network
of color and wave.